A Civilized Death

Mom died Monday morning, at home. It was a Civilized Death, meaning it was not accompanied by violence, either criminal or military, nor did it go unnoticed in the larger scheme of things. It was still a surprise, although not unanticipated, and did not happen as we would have wished.

Dad's death 14 years ago was also Civilized and also did not go as wished for. Dad was being treated (successfully) for a tumor that had wrapped itself around the back of his stomach "like a loaf of bread." His chemo was working and the doctors noted the steadily shrinking mass on successive x-rays until, with no warning, something they called a "wildfire" blew up inside him, growing as they watched. It took him in less than a month. He ended up in the hospital with his wife, kids and grandkids surrounding him, holding his hands, wiping his brow, hugging him, whispering in his ear and watching as his last breath left so softly.

Yet, all he wanted was to be at home. It just wasn't possible to get the necessary equipment installed in time. We couldn't even make arrangements fast enough with the hospice before the cancer took him.

Mom, on the other hand, was at home, in her own room. She was mobile (with a walker), articulate, had two of her sons there to cook and clean and keep her company. And yet, in the end, she died alone. She died while my brother was out paying a utility bill. She died while I was either showering or eating. No one held her; no one said goodbye. I found her quickly enough, I suppose. Her body was still warm. But it was still too late.

Would fifteen minutes earlier have made any difference? I don't know. Probably not. Death, even Civilized Death, is just something it seems we can never get completely right.